Poem for Thursday, August 2, 2012

Things Hidden in the Fog

At the intersection of Del Monte and Aguajito, a pelican
lies dead in the mulch. Wings akimbo, neck and beak tilted
sideways, there is no blood. No apparent cause of death.
It could have choked on kelp or lost its heartbeat. Perhaps
it swallowed chemicals or was shunned by its flock. But

the fact of its death, like the thick fetor of  fish and diesel,
hovers. If I were much younger, I would have forced tears.
I would have cathected the bird's charcoal neck feathers
and slit eyes. Speculated the flights it took, the ones it could
never take. Pawed through the sand with my tiny hands to

make the grave. Prayed. Being older, I worry that the species
may be endangered or the ecosystem is contaminated.
That this particular Pacific memory will be marred, despite
the roaring waves, masted sails and all the wonderful things
hidden in the fog. I try to shirk off such thoughts and walk

towards the beach, where tourists tread along the brine in
camp shirts and Vietnamese conical hats. The gulls swarm them,
pecking at food scraps and nothingness. Their cries resonate
somewhere between the bleak sky and the lulling water, and
they will never be sated.